Parental Responsibility
by InSilva
Summary: There is the craziness of the con. Life in the fast lane. And then there is the time and the people in between jobs. One-shot.


Parental Responsibility by InSilva

Disclaimer: don't own, don't own.

Summary: There is the craziness of the con. Life in the fast lane. And then there is the time and the people in between jobs.

A/N: Oh. No Danny, no Rusty. Yes, peer pressure. And yes, mark it on a calendar. :)

* * *

It wasn't like he hadn't…well, enjoyed was the wrong word, really. Although…no, no, enjoyed would do. There might have been anxiety and there might have been copious amounts of sweat involved but yes, if he were being honest with himself - and he always tried to be honest with himself even when he wasn't being honest with others - then there had been enjoyment. A feeling of living like no other. Certainly he never felt like this when he was doing any other kind of freelance work. Mostly he was working with government guys who looked through him. No one looked within him. No one saw potential. Not like…

So. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed himself because he had. And the excitement had been fever high. Such a buzz. And the contest was really between himself and his own talent. And the other guys, even the ones he'd never met before…well, none of them had looked through him. All of them wanted to have conversation, sought his opinion, appreciated his abilities. He'd felt like he'd belonged.

The movement of the money into his nominated bank account had happened seamlessly. Really, how else would it have happened? But he had no great urge to rush out and spend. The money wasn't the only reason why he'd done the job. Oh, it had helped. It had swayed his decision to risk life and liberty but the _challenge_…

No, he didn't need the money. He left it alone and it was enough to know that it was there. He'd probably think of something to do with it. Eventually. In the meantime, there was another matter. Columbus had called.

"I've got a posting," he began apologetically.

"Somewhere nice?"

"Somewhere," Col said morosely. Even a competent data analyst was subject to the whims of departmental decisions and company policies and territorial consolidation.

"How are they?" he asked and he could almost see the shrug at the other end of the phone.

"Same as ever, Vin."

"You think I should…?"

There was silence.

"You think I should."

Col thought he should.

"Look, Vin, nothing changes. I mean a new comedy club has opened up in town and the neighbours' dog died and the magnolia tree got hit by lightning and had to be cut down. But basically, nothing changes. You're my little brother and I'm not going to dictate to you. You're a young guy. You probably have an exciting life and don't need the worry."

He almost laughed. Col had absolutely no idea about his less than legal side. And really, why should he know? Why would anyone know or guess?

"My life isn't that…complex."

"Really?"

There was a note of surprise in Col's voice and he wondered what exactly his brother saw when he looked at him. He couldn't imagine being that mysterious to anyone.

"When do you go?"

"Friday."

"I'll look in on them at the weekend," he promised.

"Thanks."

There was relief at the promise alone and he reminded himself that Col's anxiety levels were as volatile as his own.

* * *

"Son!" His father's smile was wide as he opened the door. "Come in, come in."

"Hello, Dad." He allowed himself to be hugged and gave an awkward hug back. "Where's Mom?"

"She's just in the kitchen."

In the kitchen could mean a host of things. Not just fixing a meal or getting a cup of coffee. It could mean hand-washing or cupboard doors opening and closing or…

"Livingston! Darling!"

His mother came into the hall and he waited, knowing better than to kiss her or embrace her. Brown hair cut short and fringed, brown eyes sparkling, she hovered in front of him and blinked happily.

"I made some dinner," she smiled.

"That's great, Mom," he said softly. "That's great."

Dinner was pasta and butter beans and pale cheese sauce. He stared at it for a brief moment and looked over at his mother humming to herself happily as she served up on to pristine white plates.

"No colours?" he said sotto voce to his father.

"No colours," came the confirmation.

"Since when?"

His father hesitated. "A little while."

A little while. That could be anything from a week to a month and beyond. There was no pattern to his mother's…whims…and when she succumbed to them, his father had learned to adjust to strange combinations of foods. Col and he had a little more trouble doing so. Brotherly collusion had led to takeaways and food stashes and supplementary chocolate.

He sighed inwardly and smiled outwardly and ate forkfuls of pasta with good grace.

* * *

After dinner, his mother cleared the plates away, careful to keep the forks facing away from her. While she busied herself with the washing up (and again, he knew better than to interrupt the routine), he leant back in his chair and looked across the table at his father.

Older, naturally. Curly hair mostly white. Wire glasses that were new and suited him. And he looked like he was expecting the reluctant question.

"How is she?"

His father shrugged resignedly.

"She's…OK. Not so bad you'd notice."

"How are you?" he asked gently.

"Much the same, son." And the face he was looking at was stoic. "So. Col send you here?"

Denial leapt to his lips but his father's eyes were full of a distinct lack of filial blame.

"It's OK, Livingston. I know you're a busy man. Mom and I are proud of you. We're proud of you and Col. Making your way in this world."

He exhaled slowly. He had no problem defrauding the rich and greedy; he did not mind in the slightest swindling those who deserved it; he felt like the worst son ever deceiving his parents into thinking he was an honest man.

"Come on." His father's eyes were shining. "I want to show you something."

The ladder up to the loft space used to be a magical journey for Col and him: a wardrobe and a rabbit hole all rolled into one. Because up in the loft was a paradise of newspaper clippings and books and half-built science experiments and a tin of toffees and endless stories about inventors and explorers and occasional conspiracy theories that still almost held water. Even now, Livingston had difficulty not believing that JFK had secretly divorced Jackie and married Marilyn only to be shot by a man hired by a jealous and wealthy Hollywood actor.

It was his father's retreat. His little bit of freedom. And it didn't look as if it had changed one bit. Livingston loved it.

He watched as his father cleared papers and books away from his desk and then he saw something that was new. New and shiny and unexpected and yet when he thought about it, not surprising in the least.

"I wondered if you could get it working for me, son," his father asked, his hand resting on top of the personal computer. "I don't seem to have much luck with technology."

He could. He would. Oh, there would need to be phone lines and an ISP and not today. But once connected, a world of online wonder would open up and he thought of his father's face when it did and felt happiness bubble up inside.

* * *

Back downstairs, there were two mugs of hot chocolate waiting on the dining room table. His mother was nowhere in sight.

His father seemed to be debating something internally and then he let out a sigh and beckoned him to the kitchen door. He gently pushed it open and Livingston looked over his shoulder.

"Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…"

His mother was busy touching and counting every other tile on the wall above the work surface.

As one, they stepped away from the door and it was carefully shut.

"Every night. Seven times." His father supplied the answers. "If she's interrupted-"

"-she starts again."

He knew. He didn't understand but he understood. And he made his mind up.

"Dad? I know Columbus is going to be away for a bit. I thought I might move back in while he's gone. If that would be OK. If you wouldn't mind. If Mom would be alright with it. I don't want to…"

His father's hand laid itself on his arm.

"We'd like that, son. Truly, we would."

* * *

He called Col the next day.

"How are you settling in?"

There was a sigh.

"The flight was delayed and the airline lost my luggage and the hotel was double booked and I'm staying in an unattractive alternative where I don't trust the water. Other than that, fine."

"Right."

A pause.

"How are they?"

"Same as you left them."

"Right."

Another pause.

"I'm going to move in, Col. Just for a little bit. Just till you're back."

"Right."

And the relief that had been there when he had said he was going to visit was back there a hundredfold.

"I'll phone."

"I'll phone."

They would phone and they would talk and they would share. Just like they always did.

* * *

"I've made you egg sandwiches and white chocolate cookies," his mother said, pressing the pack up lunch into his hands.

"Thanks, Mom."

His father was still looking at him hopefully but he shook his head. It was a legit surveillance operation but he still wasn't going to share details. That way, he didn't have to worry about lying about the _other _sort of surveillance.

"I'm poaching haddock in a little milk for tea with white bread and butter."

"And after that, I thought you and I might head out back with the telescope and look at the stars. Meteor shower due."

He smiled at both of them and the sense of belonging that was always there somewhere welled up in him. Because this was another place where no one looked through him.


End file.
